I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog! -Emily Dickinson

Monday, 16 January 2012

GRATITUDE FOR SHORT REPRIEVES

It’s a bright winter day. Real winter – north wind bringing us “feels like” temperatures of
-15C. I walk a block to the corner store with a scarf tied over my face and
think about how handy a ski mask would be. Only problem being, I’d likely scare
the nice Chinese lady who owns the store half to death if I showed up with only
eyes and mouth in evidence. In my area of town, ski masks are rarely about
staying warm – or skiing.

Returning home, I sit down to wrangle the dollars allotted
to my 2012 budget. In estimates, I increase the cost of everything. Government
pension laws allow a loophole for “shortened life expectancy” and I am
permitted to withdraw a lump sum from my pension, so I need to plan carefully
for the year. I feel sorry for my G.P. when I have to ask her to sign the form,
verifying my truncated life span but I’m grateful that I don’t have to accept a
small dole-out of my own money from now until the mythical expected age of 99.

I move money around from chequing to savings, so I can track
my spending monthly. And then I pray that somehow, I will stick to the budget.
I’m glad to have it done – and happy that my head is clear enough now to
accomplish something requiring this much attention. My energy is increasing a
little. In the mornings, at any rate, I have my old energy back.

Yesterday, I got up at 5:30 and steamed through the house,
cleaning and tidying. I made split pea & red lentil soup, brown rice and
quinoa before exhaustion hit and I crawled back into bed. The rest of the day
was less than active but at least I got to laze in a cleaner apartment.

I have hours now when I don’t think about having cancer. I
live my life. I take care of the daily business of living. I’ve even begun to
feel the presence of my muse hovering nearby.

During my last radiation appointment, I met another patient
with lung cancer. He looked young – maybe in his mid-thirties. Thin and
haggard, slumped in his chair, he was the picture of defeat. He was introduced
to me by a caregiver who first referred to him in the third person invisible.
“He has lung cancer. He didn’t have chemo. It was too late.” I disliked her
enormously for saying that. She asked me a lot of personal questions about my
treatment – ending with, “What is your prognosis?” I was beginning to feel like
it was a catastrophe competition and so, for shock value, I answered, “Statistically,
eight months.”

Later, I wrote an entry about this for the blog but saved
the file without publishing. Much as I suspected that her care-giving had more
to do with placing herself at the center of a drama, I felt wormy
and wrong about being so judgemental, so I saved the file and walked away. I
don’t know the whole story. I don’t know her. I don’t know what she’s
sacrificed to leave her home province to care for her friend or how difficult
it is for her and I have no right to condemn on the basis of one short meeting.
Goddess knows, she could have been sad and exhausted – and just needed to talk
a little.

And my heart broke for him. He’d been diagnosed two months ago
and shortly afterwards, had to place his mother in a home. She suffers from
dementia. He said, “I told her about the cancer and she cried and said she’d
pray for me and I’d be better in the morning.” I cannot begin to imagine the
pain of that. He said, “You go through so many things, don’t you?”

Yes, you do. You can't escape your terrified mind as it scrambles from one thought to the
next. You go from panic to grief to hope to resignation in a split second. And
then you do it all over. Again and again.

On my way out, I went back to the waiting room and took his
hand. I told him I was glad to meet him and wished him good days without pain,
days of feeling well. He smiled at me. I nodded to his caregiver.

I wish him what I have now, days when I don’t think about
cancer for hours at a time. Days when I am not a disease.

My mom was just diagnosed with colon cancer. Last week we met with the oncologist. It was my first trip to an oncology department. It was a shock to my system. The room was filled. And I mean filled. Does everyone have cancer? Are we all going to have it sooner or later? We were there for hours. I had a lot of time to think. My heart broke just to see that many people. And that was only one hospital. In one city of many hospitals.......My moms surgery is this Friday. She is 87 and I am scared for her.

Ned..I'm sorry I got angry. We never know what another's story is. I have a temper and a quick sense about underlying motives but even if I was right, how sad is it that someone needs attention so desperately?

Roberta - I'd trust that your mother is in good hands. And I know how shocking it is to see cancer clinics overflowing with people. I hope that your mom comes through with flying colors. She's tough enough to have made it to 87, so that's a good sign. I wish both of you the strength you need to get through this. Much love. L.